The Violin
by The Devil's Feet
Summary: Sherlock is in one of his moods again, and John doesn't want to deal with it. A first time fic in which a long walk, a cuddle by the fire, and some middle of the night activities take place. Basically a PwP that has feels. Rated M for the second chapter.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: John Watson is played by the ever wonderful Calabash, while Sherlock Holmes is written by me. We both hope you enjoy this little two part story as much as we do.

Warnings: Graphic content! Nudity, foul language, graphic sex scenes, you know, everything that makes a PWP good. ;)

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Sherlock was in a foul mood. Nothing seemed to be going right. He hadn't had a case in days, two of his experiments had gone wrong because of Mrs Hudson's propensity to meddle, and now he couldn't find his favourite pair of pyjama bottoms. How was he supposed to lounge around without them? "JOHN!" He shouted out, pulling clothes from his bureau with a fury. "JOHN! WHERE DID YOU PUT THEM?!" The detective stood up and pulled an entire drawer out, upending it completely, trousers falling haphazardly to the ground. He growled and hurled it across the room, glaring. He was in quite a state, wearing only a very large white tee and his blue dressing gown, hair still damp from the shower he'd taken twenty minutes ago. Sherlock was boiling. So angry he was on the verge of becoming livid. He was bored and upset and now he couldn't find his pyjama bottoms. The world seemed to be plotting against him, and he didn't like it. "How in GOD'S name am I supposed to be able to sleep WITHOUT MY FAVOURITE TROUSERS?!" He cried out, kicking the mound of clothing on the floor and folding his arms petulantly.

John didn't answer him. He was making a cuppa, and he had a headache. A nasty one. Sherlock wasn't helping matters. He'd been lurking about the flat since Thursday, when he'd wrapped up a particularly high profile case, and at a time when his name was on every tongue in London, Sherlock Holmes was victim to a marked sense of fury and irritability. It wasn't a depression, though John had seen his fair share of those in his time with the volatile man. Sherlock was just... angry. Like a child bored with his toys, he'd slipped into a familiar pattern of temper tantrums and hellish behavior, and at some point the previous day, during a high pitched rant about the state of his toiletry products in the loo, John had tuned him out. He continued stirring his cup of tea calmly, wondering if there was any more pain medication in his room upstairs. He yawned, scratching his head and shuffling bare footed to the stairs. It didn't hurt to look. From Sherlock's bedroom, a howl of wrath rose, and John winced, taking the stairs two at a time. Perhaps he'd nap.

Sherlock bounded out of his room, his head whipping about wildly. He saw John plodding up the stairs and his eyes narrowed. "Where are YOU going?" he demanded furiously, folding his arms and tapping his foot. He was bloody cold in nothing but his shorts, tee, and dressing gown, and without his silk trousers, he wouldn't be able to get warm in bed for at least three hours.

"Upstairs." John didn't even bother looking behind him. Sherlock had been in the same attire for two days anyway. John rolled his eyes, ascending slowly. "I'm taking a nap," he added, mostly out of habit. Sherlock wouldn't bother to keep the noise level down.

Sherlock sneered. "Well at least SOMEONE can sleep." He said scornfully, turning on his heel and stomping about in circles. "Mrs Hudson has done the wash again, despite my CONSTANT reminders that I am perfectly capable of the small task, and I CAN'T FIND MY DAMN TROUSERS."

John paused on the stairwell, turning at last to frown at the man below. "Don't," he warned, raising a finger and shaking his head. Sherlock paced, his bathrobe flapping out behind him. His legs were long and pale and gangly, and he looked a little comical, stomping in his shorts. "Just because you're in a nark, don't start with Mrs. Hudson. She would let you do your wash if you DID it, Sherlock. But you leave it all over the flat for weeks, and she gets weary of it, and come to think of it, so do I. Excuse me." John took another step, and hesitated again. "Sherlock, you did check the machine for them."

Sherlock stared at him balefully for a few seconds, a sneer distorting his features. "Oh _no_, John. I would_ never_ think of checking _there_ for them. It's the perfect solution! So clever! So wise!" He spat out sarcastically, his jaw jutting forward. "Of course I checked the machine. It's the first place I looked when I couldn't find them in my drawer or on the floor." He hunched his shoulders and stalked into the living room, flinging himself on the sofa and hugging the union jack pillow. He sighed languidly and rolled over to face the sofa, pouting. "Now I'll never find them. I'm dooomed."

John glanced longingly up the stairs at the closed bedroom door. Within was a warm bed. Comfortable clothes. Soothing music. Downstairs... Sherlock Holmes. He exhaled in resignation, and descended the steps once more. A quick sweep of the sitting room produced the trousers, wadded up and stuffed into the hollow space of Sherlock's damned skull. John lifted his eyebrow as he tossed them to the prostrate man, clearing his throat. "Experiment?"

Sherlock felt the familiar sensation of silk on bare skin and turned his head about suspiciously. "John, if I didn't know better I would say that my trousers could walk." He narrowed his eyes at the blue things and pulled them on one leg at a time, muttering about people taking to hiding his clothes and that "it wasn't as though he was addicted to his pyjama trousers, so what was the bloody point of hiding them in the first place." He flung himself back on the sofa and grumbled softly to no one in particular. Presently he noticed that John was still standing by the couch, as if waiting for something. Sherlock sat up and blinked at him, cocking his head. "What?" He asked peevishly.

"You could say thank you." Great. Brilliant. John was beginning to reflect his moods. He crossed his arms, glaring down at the man on the couch with an expectant expression. Sherlock was such a DICK sometimes. He tapped his foot, waiting.

Sherlock snorted and buried his face in the pillow, his arse high in the air as he hugged the fluffy object to his head. "I believe you said it was 'nap time'." He replied bitterly, wiggling his head about for maximum comfort. There was no way in hell he was going to say thank you now that John had pointed it out. No. Bloody. Way.

John waited another ten seconds before turning and marching to the loo, ripping his shirt off as he went. Shower. He'd take a shower and have a wank and he'd feel better, well enough to ignore Sherlock for the rest of the day, and go sit in his room and read. Or watch telly. Or better yet, take some pills and sleep. He slammed the door behind him, hissing at the jolt of pain that tore through his head, but it was worth it. At least Sherlock knew he was angry. John disrobed swiftly, stepping into a hot stream of water and sighing. Years now, three years he'd been with Sherlock in this flat; one would think he'd be used to the emotional outbursts by now. It was bound to happen. Sherlock squelched his emotions in day to day life. They were bound to come pouring out in odd ways once in a while. But days like today... John just wanted the cold, stoic back. He washed quickly, had his wank, tried not to think about it, and wrapped himself in his dressing gown to shave. Maybe he'd go out. Even with a headache.

Sherlock waited until John finished his biological urges before he padded over to the loo and opened the door. He peered in and blinked owlishly at the man angrily shaving his chin. As John turned to stare expectantly at him, Sherlock suddenly wished he hadn't bothered. But he had, and he wasn't about to back down now. The detective cleared his throat, shifting about. "Errm... thank you..." He muttered uncomfortably, licking his lips, his eyes downcast and mostly contrite. "I'll, um, I'll try to keep it down."

John's hand stalled, so suddenly that the razor slipped, and he nicked his jaw. "Damn it!" He dropped the razor, grabbing up a small wash rag and pressing it to the shallow cut. Slowly, he turned his eyes to Sherlock in the mirror, and blinked, the shock on his face glaringly apparent. Sherlock had apologized. To him. He was speechless. John watched as the man shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, clearly embarrassed, but before Sherlock could open his mouth and say something biting to cover it up, John spoke. "Cheers. That would be helpful." He rotated to study him closely. "You should do something constructive, Sherlock. Get out of the flat for a while. Ring up Greg."

Sherlock flushed bright red and scowled. He hated apologising. Hated it even more when John acknowledged it. Hated it even more now that he always felt a pang of satisfaction and pleasure when John accepted it and moved on. "I don't need to get out of the flat." He insisted dully, kicking the door frame and staring down at his clean toes. "Lestrade is away on holiday." The younger man frowned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Turning away he hunched his shoulders and bit his lip. "If I were you I would clean up that blood. It could get painful and irritated if you don't." Sherlock knew that from experience. He had very sensitive skin, and when he first started shaving, though being the lucky sort that never really was able to grow facial hair, he had cut himself quite often with a razor. He kicked the air and sighed, making his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

John wavered in the loo, and sighed deeply. He washed his face, dabbed a bit of antiseptic on his nick, and followed Sherlock to the kitchen. "Hey."

Sherlock continued to make his tea, boiling water in the glass kettle, taking down various boxes and tins, eventually discarding all of them until he found the one he was looking for. Opening cabinet doors, he bypassed all of the regular cups until he found John's old mug from Bart's, Sherlock's secret favourite. He did not answer John. He was far too embarrassed to do anything except repudiate any and all conversations that alluded to his earlier bout of weakness.

"Sherlock." John took the mug from his hands, proceeding to pour his tea and prepare it, just the way his mate liked it. He gave him a tired smile. "Stop moping. A case will turn up. Always does." John stepped in close, taking Sherlock's hand and pressing the cup into his palm. He could smell Sherlock's morning skin, the sweet natural scent of his hair. When he wasn't being a prat, Sherlock was quite pleasant to be around. John patted his arm, grey eyes affectionate. "There now. Cuppa will make you feel better. I need to lie down."

Sherlock huffed, his cheeks puffing out for a moment with indignation at John's motherly behaviour, but he deflated. He was tired and upset and lonely and bored. All he had done the previous night was stare at the ceiling and play his violin, just as he had done the night before. Now that he had no cases, and no probability of cases (it was one of the "off seasons" that all criminals seemed to abide by), he was depressed and angry and dejected. "Go on then," he said mournfully, plodding back to the sofa and sitting carefully down. Staring at his tea, Sherlock propped his feet on the sofa and sighed. Get out of the flat. The notion. He shook his head and sipped at his tea. _Silly John._

The doctor nodded, and drifted towards the stairs. "Loo's free..." he mumbled, taking the steps one at a time, his feet dragging. He was exhausted. His head throbbed. The cut on his jaw stung, and he needed sleep. "Night." John shut himself in his room, and leaned back against the door. Sherlock's sad face swam behind his eyes, and he groaned a little, staggering towards the bed. He couldn't stay up all night watching telly with him again! He couldn't. He wasn't a machine, like the consulting detective. He needed some rest. And hopefully, tomorrow, Sherlock would get a case and be in a decent mood again. Because secretly... John missed him. He threw himself into bed and was snoring before he hit the pillow.

Sherlock stared at the opposite wall for a long time, and then got his violin out. With a flourish of his wrist, the sleuth began playing a soft, soothing melody, one he noticed John appreciate. He was quite sure his friend was sleeping, but he also knew that different sounds helped create different dreams, and Sherlock wanted John to have a pleasant dream. He sat by the foot of the stairs, serenading his best and only friend in all the world, without John's even realising it. Sherlock smiled a little. John was one of the most unobservant men in the world. He had been playing his violin for John Watson ever since the man had expressed his pleasure in hearing the instrument played. Of course John hadn't guessed, and would never know that Sherlock played it for him. But that was fine. It was the sleuth's little secret, and he was happy with it. After all, who knew what sort of reaction John would give him if he said that he liked seeing the short man smile appreciatively. No doubt he would tease Sherlock unmercifully.

When John woke with a start, fresh from a nameless, faceless, pleasant dream, the first thing he was cognizant of was that he was desperately thirsty. He stared blearily at his bedside clock. 1:34 AM. He grunted, rolling out of bed and assessing himself. He was parched, and needed more sleep, but... his headache was all but gone. He smiled, stretching as he lumbered to the door and down the stairs, yawning. His dressing gown still hung from his shoulders, loose about his naked body, and he yelped as he nearly tripped over a large object at the foot of the stairs. John peered in the darkness, rubbing his eyes. "Sherlock?"

The detective was asleep, curled at the base of the staircase, violin still in his limp hands. John grinned, bending to look in that serene face. He crouched before him, one hand reaching up to brush a dark, damp curl from the high forehead. John felt a rush of fondness. "Sherlock," he whispered, thumb grazing a high cheekbone. Sherlock did not answer, but breathed deeply. John licked his lips, watching the beautiful man sleep. He was remarkably pretty. That is, when he wasn't hurling insults and sneering. John shook his head, leaning in closer.

"Sherlock, wake up, it's bedtime." For a moment, the pale face was translucent and angelic in the low moonlight, and John could not resist. He pressed a chaste, fond kiss on his temple. "Come on, then." John slid his arms around the lanky man, hauling him up.

Sherlock moaned a little in his sleep and shook his head violently. "Don't want to." He muttered blearily. "John's sleeping... good dreams..." The young man leaned heavily against John, resting his nose in the crook of his friend's neck. "Must play... pology..." he sighed and nuzzled gently into the warm flesh, murmuring happily. He was warm and comfortable, two things which rarely ever happened to the lonely detective. Yawning, Sherlock's hand slid to John's naked chest and he smiled, still mostly asleep.

John laughed a little, moving Sherlock's hand as best he could to his shoulder, and half carrying the detective to his room. He nudged the door open with his foot, and stepped across the threshold into the darkened sanctuary, a place where he rarely entered. It was a bit of an unspoken rule of the flat: bedrooms were private. For Sherlock's part, John was well aware that he had a natural distrust of anyone going through his things, mussing his careful, logical system of socks, knickers, and undershirts. Thanks to dear Mycroft, Sherlock assumed that anyone entering his private quarters was most likely searching for drugs, or worse. It did no good to attempt to disavow him of this idea; Mycroft's influence was too strong. And so John respected the aversion to intruders, and for the most part, stayed clear. As for his own room... well, it was easier to allow Sherlock the impression that he shared his fear than to explain the reason Sherlock wasn't allowed to come bursting into his room at all hours was because he was likely to find John enjoying a wank. At this thought, the doctor blushed fiercely, and deposited Sherlock in his large, elaborate bed, yanking the sheets over his body and patting his face. "Sleep well," he whispered. Sherlock grunted, and John bit his lip as he gazed down at him. He looked so gaunt... so thin. He'd been good there for a while, but lately, he seemed to be slipping back into bad habits, old patterns. John would have to watch him closely from now on.

Sherlock shook his head wildly, sitting up and frowning. "No. It's never a..." he trailed off and flushed a little, blinking as though he was seeing John for the first time. "Sleep, then." He murmured, flopping back down and pulled the covers back over himself. It was frustrating trying to sleep and being left alone, but it was even more frustrating being so dependent on someone else for easing that loneliness. He rolled over, tossing about, trying to get comfortable, stalwartly ignoring John's presence in the room. Maybe he would sneak some cocaine or heroin once John left the room.

John waited until he settled again, until his breathing turned rhythmic, and low. He turned to leave, but his eyes fell on the bed. The damned violin. Sherlock was still clutching it in his long fingers, hugging it to his chest as he slumbered. John sighed. He'd be devastated if he rolled on top of it in the night and broke it. John padded silently to the other side of the bed, climbing on the mattress and gently, gingerly slipping his hands beneath the instrument, working it out of the iron grip. Damn, Sherlock was strong. Even in his sleep, he had fingers of steel. John gritted his teeth, trying to maneuver the thing from his chest without waking him. The silver light from the window fell on the placid face, and John was momentarily distracted by the frown on Sherlock's brow. He freed the violin, but hesitated there, curious. Was Sherlock having a nightmare? Was he disturbed? John reached out once more to thread his fingers through the dark curls, as his mum had done to him when he was caught in the throes of a restless sleep. "Shhh, Sherlock," John soothed, setting the violin aside and petting the tangled head.

Sherlock curled in on himself, whimpering a bit when he felt a hand on his head. His brow tightened and he bit his lip, his hand shooting out and searching for his violin. The detective didn't want to be alone. He needed something, needed...

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his hands patting the surroundings until he found a solid form. Sherlock clutched onto John's robes, shifting closer to the heat he felt radiating from John's small body. He let out another small noise, his head coming in contact with John's stomach. The firmness felt so comforting, as did the hand on his head. Sherlock had never felt someone comforting him like this before... half awake he mewled, wrapping his arms around John's waist and nosing the bare chest and breathing deeply, the dark tendrils of his barely remembered dream began to inch back from his brain. "Johnn..."

John sat very, very still on Sherlock's bed, his grey eyes wide and wondering as his friend tightened the grip on his waist. The doctor's tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, and he glanced around, debating what his next move should be. Sherlock looked restless and hollow in his half awake, half asleep dreamy state, and John was fully aware of his need, desperate and powerful, for sleep. If Sherlock did not sleep, everyone would suffer for it tomorrow. But he could not see a way to extricate himself without waking the poor bloke. His head throbbed once, and John winced. "Sherlock," he whispered. There was no response. He sighed, moving his hips a little, trying to slide out from under the curly, warm head. Sherlock pulled him closer, now really and truly asleep, his soft head cradled on John's lap, arms limp and resting on his thighs. Well, this wouldn't do. John scowled in frustration, his knees bent, legs pulled underneath him, feet squashed between the plush mattress and his arse. Damn. John grunted as he leaned down and slid his arms underneath Sherlock's, lifting him with great effort and lying him backwards into the bed once more. He was forced to straddle one hip, his arms tucked neatly behind the slender man, bringing their faces close. John was not embarrassed... He actually took the moment to study the perfect curve of his acerbic mouth, the flow of those cheekbones into smooth, pulsing temples framed with dark curls. Sherlock was beautiful; anyone with eyes could see that. John pushed his hair back again as he freed his arms. He worried about him so.

Sherlock grunted, his brow furrowing as he tossed his head. The loss of warmth was a terrible blow for the poor detective, he held his arms out, grabbing onto John's body and pulling him down, sliding a leg over both of John's and rocking up into the compact body. Sherlock moaned again, his lips brushing John's cheek. This was nice, comforting, safe... Sherlock didn't want to let this feeling go.

Shock echoed through John's skull and his little body as Sherlock rolled his bony hips into his thigh, and he gasped aloud, momentarily frozen to the spot. Sherlock's wiry arms effectively pinned him to his chest, and he felt his frame shudder against Sherlock's, responding involuntarilty to the stimulation. There were some things a man could control: his temper, his decisions, and most of his reactions, for instance. But some things were completely and utterly at the mercy of Mother Nature, and Mother Nature was a sick and cold hearted bitch. John's body recognized and reacted to the heat and proximity of another human being in the darkest watches of the night, and immediately, he felt the flush of arousal warming his cheeks, a rush of blood galloping to a central point between his legs. John choked in horror, and wriggled away, his limbs flailing wildly as he scrambled for the edge of the bed. He jostled Sherlock awake, but at this point, Sherlock's well being was secondary to his frantic need to get the hell out of the room before his best mate discovered John had an erection, and spent the next five years making snide comments about it. "Sorry, sorry," John hastily stammered under his breath to the groggy man behind him. "Didn't mean to wake you, sorry."

Sherlock rubbed his forehead and blinked up at his friend, slowly raising himself from the reclined position. "What are you still doing in here?" He asked, flushing a little. John had obviously caught him in a compromising position. Clearly from the tone and pitch of his voice he'd seen something. Not only that, but he'd been close to Sherlock physically. The detective remembered the previous warmth, the sense of security... it had to do with John, clearly, and that was not good. Sherlock refused to let himself be swayed by a base emotion like... like... whatever this was. Sherlock waspishly grabbed the blankets and pulled them up over himself. He glared at his friend, and then flushed red. John didn't have a shirt on. No shirt. Sherlock flipped around and pulled the covers practically over his head. "Well?"

"I..." John stood shakily at the side of the bed, frowning down at the petulant man below, and he narrowed his eyes. He wanted to shout that the only reason he was here in the first place was because he'd had the decency to help Sherlock to bed, save his violin from an untimely fate, and was repaid for his kindness by an extremely unwarranted cuddle. But... a thrill ran up his thighs at the recollection of the entire affair, and John's cock twitched. He coughed, turning on his heel to make a quick exit, trying desperately to keep the thickness out of his voice as he called out, "You're right, sorry, I'll just be going. Good night, Sherlock." John slammed the door a bit too hard on his way into the hall, and he stalked to the kitchen for the glass of water he'd gotten up for in the first place. Damned Sherlock. What the hell was he doing falling asleep on the stairs with the damned violin? Why couldn't he sleep and eat and shower and work like normal people? Why did he had to be so... so... Sherlock? John huffed, standing still in the kitchen a moment, glaring down at the tenting in his shorts. "You might as well go back to sleep, too," he admonished quietly. "I'm not touching you after THAT." He thumbed towards Sherlock's bedroom, chuckling at himself.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps go up the stairs and waited twenty seconds before he got up again. Padding out of his bedroom, Sherlock peered around the corner, making sure the doctor wasn't anywhere in sight. He darted out into the kitchen, still looking about. The detective had a... problem. One he had never had to deal with before John Watson came into his life. Normally Sherlock would make himself a cup of tea, sit on the sofa and read some absolutely absurd "scientific" publication. That usually calmed the unwelcomed bodily function down. Sherlock set the kettle on, looking around for John's Bart's mug. It wasn't in the room, so John hadn't brought it in yet. This would mean he would HAVE to use a different one. Sherlock hated using different mugs. He liked John's mug. Tonight maybe he would play his violin again, perhaps watch some telly. All he knew for certain was he would not be going back to sleep this night.

Upstairs, John placed his mug down on the bedside table, and crawled back into the bed, exhaling softly through his nose. He wasn't sleepy anymore. Damn Sherlock and his lanky body and lack of boundaries and his...

Violin.

John sat up straight, his mug half way to his mouth, and he listened intently. The violin again. Sherlock was up, and playing. He sighed, shaking his head and settling back into the pillows, sipping on his water and letting his eyes slide shut as the music seeped under the door, rolling like fog in his eardrums and burrowing into his heart. It was a beautiful, sorrowful melody, one that sounded as if it could be one of Sherlock's own compositions. John wondered if Sherlock would ever know how much he loved listening to the music he made... how peaceful and content it made him feel. He pulled the blankets up, shutting his senses down one by one in anticipation of sleep... except one. John's eyes closed, and he fell asleep to the beautiful strains with a smile on his handsome face.

Sherlock played his violin for three hours before he finally decided to take John's advice and "get out of the flat". He set his violin down carefully and stared up at the bedroom from which he could hear John's breathing, soft and whispery, barely there. The detective closed his eyes for a few moments, giving himself up to the images that roiled about in his mind. Images of John's smile and voice and, oddly enough, his body... his hands... his legs...

Sherlock shook himself quickly, pursing his lips. No, not that route again. That always brought on bad reactions. He practically stomped into his room, frowning angrily. He yanked his trousers off, pushing down the blue robe and pulling off his ratty white t shirt. "God!" He snapped, rummaging through the dark dresser that held his clothes. Today was a Friday, so therefore he would wear the black shorts with the white waistband, and his socks would be coal instead of black.

John was startled awake once more by the sound of an angry shout from below. He blinked blearily at the clock, and reclined back, groaning. It was too late to go back to sleep now... and too early to be up for work. He cursed under his breath, throwing his blankets off with a huff. This was really unacceptable. Just because Sherlock Holmes had nowhere to go today did not give him the right to wake his flat mate at all hours. John did not bother with a robe. He marched down the stairs with his fists clenched, and stood with his feet planted on the hard wood floors, staring at the half naked man across the sitting room. "What the hell is it now, Sherlock?" he demanded. He did not care that he was in his boxer shorts, or that he was still wearing his woolen socks, or that he was bare chested, and his cheeks were ruddy, and his eyes lidded, and his golden hair stuck up in the back. John Watson was not the sort of man who would ever have noticed a single one of those things. He simply jutted his chin out irritably, and crossed his arms over a tanned, hard chest.

After the initial glance, Sherlock did not look at the short army doctor. "Go back to bed!" He snapped, pulling on his purple shirt and buttoning it up quickly. John looked... ridiculous... and... fuck. Sherlock glared at the empty packet of cigarettes crushed in his left hand. "I'm going out!" He snipped, storming over to the sofa and getting on his hands and knees to retrieve the shoes which had somehow found their way from the door to here in the past three days. "I'm out of nicotine patches and I need at least five." He snarled, yanking the shoes out and practically throwing himself on the sofa.

John's eyebrow lifted at the pert, round arse that waved at him from the floor. Sherlock was in a nark. And a pretty one at that. The doctor sighed, and trudged to the door of Sherlock's bedroom, ignoring that indignant shout that his flat mate threw at him. Privacy be damned. This was getting absurd. "Here," he muttered as he made his way back to the sitting room. "You might need trousers." He smiled wanly down at the man on the sofa, neatly ensconced in socks, dress shoes, his purple shirt of sex, and a pair of snug black boxer briefs. John cocked his head, unable to keep the twinkle from his eyes. "Pants are always helpful when purchasing nicotine patches."

Sherlock hissed, snatching the trousers from John's hand, glaring furiously. "They never SAY you need pants. They always say shoes and shirt, and I HAVE shoes and shirt!" He ripped the shoes from his feet and stood up once more, muttering angrily to himself. He was flustered. That was the problem. John made him flustered. "I never forgot them." He insisted sullenly, yanking the trousers on one leg at a time, pointedly ignoring the smirking man behind him. Fuck. Why the hell had John woken up? He wasn't supposed to be awake now. This was supposed to be a secret outing in which to search out a brawl, perhaps provoke some poor, unknowing citizen into throwing a punch at him. After all, Sherlock was BORED and there was nothing, absolutely nothing here to reduce that boredom. John wouldn't even play Cludeo with him.

"Here, stop it now, just calm down." John shuffled over to the twitching man, the earlier incident forgotten in his sudden, overwhelming need to fuss over his friend. Sherlock looked terribly irritable and tense. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. It's not the first time you've forgotten your pants," John smiled, reaching up to adjust one shirt button and run a calloused hand through the mass of thick, dark curls. "You look a fright..." Grey eyes met silver, and John frowned. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. This looked to be more than a nicotine craving. Sherlock did not answer, and the doctor's brow furrowed. "Do you want some company?" He was certainly not going back to sleep.

Sherlock blinked at him, flushing a little. "Only... only if you can get ready in seven minutes." He said, his eyes shifting about looking anywhere but at John's practically naked body. Sherlock did not like to be this aware of someone's body. He did not like to be this aware of someone's near nude proximity. He wasn't like this with anyone else. So why John? "'m just going out for nicotine patches.." he repeated, hunching his shoulders just a little to make himself shorter, giving John an easier shot to his head. Sherlock very much liked getting his hair played with, though he would never, ever admit it.

John's hand was just leaving the curls when the subtle, almost unnoticable movement caught his eye. Sherlock tilted his head... just a little. Nearly imperceptibly. But John saw it. Instead of removing his hand, curiosity got the better of him, and he continued to smooth the silken locks, as if making him more presentable for his jaunt to the pharmacy. "Yeah, well, I can use some air. And I can be ready in ninety seconds or less, you know that." John grinned, winking up at him, standing close. Now that he'd escaped Sherlock's bedroom unscathed, he was quite comfortable with being this close to his friend... they had few personal boundaries, and part of the fear he'd experienced earlier that night was a terror of losing that dynamic between them. John had never had a friend like Sherlock before. Maybe it was his anti social behaviours, but Sherlock Holmes did not seem to have the standard hang ups most blokes did. This, for instance. It was pleasant to touch his hair, to smooth it, to feel the soft threads dragging between his fingers. No other bloke would ever let John touch him this way. Not without calling him an arse sniffer anyway.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered a little as John's hand ran through his hair creating pleasant sensations that the detective was loathe to put an end to. "Yes... I know." he murmured, butting his head into John's hand a little before realising what he was doing. Immediately his eyes popped open and he froze. Did John notice? Obviously, yes. Should he really care that John noticed? Perhaps. It really depended on how the shorter man reacted. Best thing to do was act as though nothing happened, yes, continue to let John stroke his hair, because it DID feel wonderful... very, very wonderful. It calmed him down, soothing over his irritations, and made him want to curl up in a little ball with his head on John's lap, just lying there while John stroked his hair and... oh shit. He could feel himself begin to stir a bit. That was NOT good.

As Sherlock's head curved into his palm, applying a little pressure in a silent plea for more contact, John's mind flew to primary school, to standing in front of a classroom with a copy of Lewis Carrol's Alice in his hands, and repeating the phrase... "Curiouser and Curiouser." For a moment, he considered moving his other hand to Sherlock's hair, and seeing what sort of reaction that would elicit... but a quiet warning bell had begun to ring in his ears, and so John slipped away, striding quickly to the pile of laundry Mrs. Hudson had left on their sofa and grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt. He pulled them on quickly, not looking at Sherlock, and true to his word, John was ready and standing by the door in under two minutes. "Come on, I could use a chocolate," he said cheerily.

Sherlock nodded, mostly silent as he slipped into his coat. John was a little uncomfortable, a thing plain as day to Sherlock's experienced eyes, which were never far from the short man's body. He always found himself staring a little longer than usual. It wasn't as though he couldn't tell exactly what John had been doing or what he was going to do, it was simply that he did not know what he was THINKING, and that was an interesting dilemma. Sherlock could almost always tell what people were thinking in most instances, but every time he seemed to get a grip on John Watson it seemed that he was wrong. "Let's go." He said gruffly, opening the door and turning up the collar on his coat. "You'll have to be to work before long, and by my estimations it will take almost an hour to walk the entirety of the route, not to mention the ten minutes it will take for you to find the chocolate of your desires. As for me I know exactly where my fix is." He sniffed the early morning air and smiled. Ah, this was always something the sleuth appreciated; early morning senses. Everything was fresh and new, the battle field that was London seemed to have a lull for a few short hours before dawn. It was truly peaceful.

John followed his friend down the stairs, eyeing the dramatic flapping of the long coat, and he wished for perhaps the hundredth time that he was able to pull something like that off. It was sweeping, majestic... and bloody warm inside that damned thing. He knew, because on a few occasions, when their investigations had taken them on frigid stakeouts for hours on end, Sherlock had allowed him to slide in close and wrap his arms inside the silk and wool of The Coat, shaking and grumbling, his fingers nearly turned to ice as he warmed them against Sherlock's back. Sherlock would hiss, and they'd sit and look in opposite directions, but at least they were warm. John was fully aware of how Sherlock hated the cold. The rail thin body did not retain heat. As he burst onto the street next to the detective, it struck John that this was probably what had prompted Sherlock's earlier actions; he blushed furiously. Poor Sherlock had just been trying to curl around him, get a bit of warmth on a cold night, and John... John had been so hard up he got a stiffy. The doctor silently berated himself for his lack of recent sexual activity. He'd make it up to Sherlock. "Come on," John said with a puff of frosty air. "Let's hurry and get back and build a fire." He linked his arm through Sherlock's, steering him down the street.

Sherlock looked down at the arm threaded around his, but said nothing of it. John was feeling guilty for something, but what it was Sherlock could not fathom. Still, he wasn't about to say anything, he never did when John allowed him these small moments of skinship that the detective so enjoyed. It seemed to Sherlock that these little gestures were some of the most natural and happiest he had ever encountered, and they were all carefully stored away in a special vault of his Mind Palace under the name John Watson.

He allowed John to guide him down the street and passed the houses that they sped by every day, not saying a word. The silence was companionable, and almost more comfortable than conversation. Sherlock liked that. He never understood humanity's need to chatter on about inane little facts that he could read just by glancing. He liked silence, well, he liked silence sometimes. Other times he liked noise. A lot of noise. But this was good, pleasant, comforting, and Sherlock was happy to continue in such fashion until John decided to talk. He smiled a little, his hand itching to move slightly and grasp John's. That would make this walk pure perfection.

John was pleased that Sherlock seemed to be in one of his quieter moods. Oftentimes on walks like this, particularly if Sherlock was on a case, the man could not stop running off at the mouth to save his life. Suspects, clues, possibilities, all of it slipped together, like oil on the street, until the rainbow swirl of dirt and information trickled out of John's ears and covered him in filth which he would never, could never, wash off. It was difficult to feel clean around Sherlock Holmes. John looked and saw the florist. Sherlock looked, and saw the sex addict with a penchant for torture. John saw the cabbie. Sherlock saw the serial killer. It was thrilling, to be sure, and John wouldn't trade it... but this morning, he was grateful for the chance to feel clean. If he could stop thinking about what had happened earlier. He sighed, glancing down at his feet, and beside him, he felt Sherlock stiffen. Of course. The man was deducing him as they walked. John rolled his eyes and smirked, shaking his head a little. Fine, he'd have to address it. He cleared his throat, the first rays of the rising sun lighting on his face, pink, gold, and glorious. "Sorry about... last night. I didn't mean to wake you. That was the whole point of rolling you in bed, actually."

"Think nothing of it. I understand the actions on your part." Sherlock jerked his head back to its previous position of staring at the street in front of him. He was, in fact, very surprised that John hadn't woken him up before then. Sherlock never knew John could be so quiet, after all, the detective was a light sleeper, and could always tell when someone was in his room. The fact that he might have slept through it because he was just so comfortable and safe around John did not factor into it. Sherlock wouldn't let it. "I... overreacted." He said a little stiffly, licking his lips. "You were trying to help."

John laughed at this, his white teeth flashing in the grey morning light, and he shifted just a hair closer to Sherlock as they walked. His friend looked down at his with an uplifted brow, and John distantly wondered what Sherlock would say if he knew the reason that he'd fled his bedroom in such a bloody hurry was because he was sporting an erection. "I overreacted, Sherlock, but it was the middle of the night, and I think we can probably both forget about it. What the hell were you doing on the stairs with your violin at that time of night anyway?" John inquired, lifting his chin to gaze up at him curiously.

Sherlock stiffened, fighting off the sudden rosy hue that threatened to colour his cheeks. "Nothing. Why would I have to be doing something there?" He inquired quickly, his eyes darting from a lamp post to a stone to a poorly parked car to a stray cat sitting on a low stone wall. Like hell he'd tell John the reason he was there was to play for him because he knew John liked it so, because he knew certain sensory stimulations helped a more restful slumber. No bloody way.

"Fine, have your secrets." John mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Bloody bastard," and he continued on in silence, his hand resting comfortably on the crook of Sherlock's elbow. The Coat smelled lovely, and it mingled with the early morning smells in John's nostrils, recalling pleasant memories of the years gone by. Sherlock had come a long way since their first meeting at Bart's. John was proud of him. He was a little more polite, a little less volatile... a little more human. They continued on quietly until the pharmacy came in sight, and it occurred to John that a walk which had to have taken a good twenty minutes seemed to fly by when he walked with Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps they should do it more often. "Thank god for twenty four hour pharmacies," John murmured, letting his arm slip from Sherlock's as they approached.

Sherlock placed his hands in his pocket as soon as John let go of his arm, a sudden chill wrapping the place that had moments ago been warm and cosy. "Did you... did you sleep well, earlier?" He asked suddenly, walking through the automatic doors and turning to look at his friend. "Your headache gone?" Sherlock was sure he had and was sure it was, but a small nagging thought made him ask anyway, even though he knew the answer already.

"Yes, thanks." The doctor followed him inside, staring at his back in surprise. Wonders never ceased. Sherlock was worried about him. Without another word, the moment that they stepped inside, Sherlock and John turned and went their separate ways. Sherlock wandered down towards the counter for his nicotine patches; John took the opportunity to quietly snatch a bottle of lubricant. He was nearly out, and when one's sex life consisted solely of wanking, a few luxury items were permitted. He selected a bag of dark chocolate truffles... another luxury... and spent the next ten minutes window shopping while Sherlock argued with the clerk who did not want to sell him a box of nicotine patches alongside the carton of cigarettes he asked for. John sidled up to him with a serene smile, nodding to the clerk and softly murmuring that the carton was for him. The clerk eyed them suspiciously, but when John reached out and took the cigarettes and pulled out his wallet, he shrugged, and allowed John to pay.

Sherlock glared daggers at the half wit clerk and stood behind John, tucking the patches into his pocket. He COULD have just stole the items, but he had decided to pay. Moronic humans trying to make his life miserable with their petty morals and... John was buying lubricant. Sherlock flushed, though he did not know why. It was a perfectly normal thing to buy for some people. He knew how often John pleasured himself, and it was not a problem. In fact it was quite an interesting subject, not that Sherlock had ever given it much thought, no. He knew how bodily functions worked, even if he was above all that... high above it... so high he never noticed.

Turning about, Sherlock stormed out of the building, waiting by the door for the doctor. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat and rolled up the shirt as well, placing one patch on his forearm. Good thing he'd bought two boxes. This week threatened to be a patch a day problem.

John sauntered out of the building into a much brighter morning than the one they'd left. People were beginning to wake, to wander about their flats and make coffee. Shower. Dress for the day. London was a-bustle, though still bitterly cold. John shivered in his jacket, and turned to Sherlock, handing him the carton of cigarettes sombrely. "Here. You owe me dinner."

Sherlock pocketed it and pushed down the sleeve. "Chinese?" He asked briskly, stepping forward. John wouldn't link arms with him now, not when there was a chance to be seen because "people would talk". As he often reminded the detective. As for Sherlock, he didn't give a damn what people said. He wanted what he wanted and no one stopped him, not one single person, because if they ever tried he would take them down. He'd done it before, many times.

"Sounds brilliant. Tonight?" One small, muscular, firm arm slid in the crook of that woollen elbow. John's steps fell in line, his heels clicking against the pavement.

Sherlock did not skip a step or even give notice that he felt John's arm around his once more. He simply slowed his steps just a little and shifted his arm about. "Absolutely. Take-away or dine out?"

The rough, work-calloused hand rested on the very cusp of Sherlock's sleeve, where fabric scraped the supple flesh of a lily white wrist. Tanned fingertips grazed the sleeve hem, playing with the loose pills. "Your choice. If you like, we could eat out, get you out of the flat. Or we could do take away, watch telly. Play a game." Please not Cluedo. Anything but Cluedo.

"Cards, then. Something for two?" Sherlock asked loftily, still not staring at the hand that was creeping closer to his own.

The pads of those coarse fingers danced over pale knuckles, and John did not move them away. He had not even been aware of Sherlock's hand until that moment, and now, it seemed perfectly natural to leave his fingers where they were, simply skating over the silken skin on the back of Sherlock's thin hand. "You know what I like," he said casually. "Nothing with those black peppers."

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "Very well." The smile lingered on his lips as he clenched his other hand in excitement and gratification. Perhaps John didn't realise where his hand was, perhaps John put it there on purpose (most likely not, due to the very gradual movement). Whatever it was Sherlock would not interrupt it. Not for the world. There was a slight spring in his step as they continued the walk in relative silence, every so often one of them would make an observation, usually that person being Sherlock, and the other would smile and nod, the other almost always being John. In fact it was such a pleasant walk that it passed by all too quickly and soon Sherlock saw their building, 221 B. Well, everything was finite, and it all had to end sometime.

John yawned in dramatic fashion as Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat, standing back and waiting as John slipped inside first. He trotted up the steps and was half way up before he realised what had just happened. He did not stop, but his sluggish, tired brain slowly processed it, and he frowned as he ascended the stairs, glancing behind him at the detective making his way up. Sherlock had opened the door for him. Like John was his bloody date. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head and letting the pair of them into their upstairs apartment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. They'd been called a couple for so damned long, they were beginning to act like one. The night previous, for instance. John smiled across the room at his flat mate, and they deposited their purchases on the coffee table. John stared down at the bags, his arms crossed, and he grinned up at Sherlock. "Cigarettes, chocolate, and lube. We look like we're in for a damned good time."

Sherlock froze, unable to hold back the sudden blush. "Wha.. I... don..." he saw John's smile slip a little and realised it too late. John was making a joke. Oh. "Ahem, yes, quite." He turned around quickly, removing his shoes as fast as he could. "I'm sure people would feel quite vindicated if they were privy to this shopping list." He laughed a little, but it was forced. Damn his brain! Damn his over active, bloody smart, absolutely impossible brain! In another part of his mind, Sherlock found it quite amusing that he was cursing his brain, the one attribute about himself he completely adored, his best and worst quality. This was a first. "Well, I'm, ah, I'm going back to bed." He still did not turn around, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the wall next to his scarf. "I suppose you'll be getting ready for work."

"I suppose." John did not want to go to work. He was tired, and wanted desperately to go back to sleep. With Sherlock.

The thought struck him, and he nearly groaned under the weight of it. Fuck, but that sounded lovely. John Watson had slept alone for far too long... just to wrap his limbs around someone comfortable, someone that was easy to breathe next to, someone that needed a little extra warmth... He collapsed on the sofa, grunting and thinking longingly about the massive bed in Sherlock's room, and the feather pillows, and the down comforter covered in silk. Envy shot through him, and he glanced up at the ceiling and his bedroom above with its 200 count sheets. "I might kip here a while.."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, twiddling his thumbs. "I, ah..." he trailed off, looking at his bedroom. "It's cold in here, isn't it?" He asked lamely, stalling for time. John kept glancing at his door, at Sherlock's bedroom. Why? Sherlock had to know. "Or maybe it's just me again." He mumbled, looking at the ground.

"Right. Fire." John forced himself off the sofa, shuffling over to the fireplace and yawning again as he knelt down, his brown hands moving swiftly and deftly. They liked fires, he and Sherlock. Neither took the time to build them often... though he'd noticed Sherlock managed to build a nice, roaring one for the bloody Adler bitch when SHE was cold... but this morning was very bitter, and damp, and he was in the mood for one, damn it. He stoked it lazily. The flames licked up, throwing golden shadows about, and they danced like ghosts across the walls. The sun had not managed to penetrate the heavily curtained windows yet, and so as John scooted backwards, reclining against the couch, it was as dark as night in their sitting room. He smiled sleepily. "Better."

Sherlock nodded and settled down by his friend, leaning up against him. "You're warm." He said softly, staring into the hungry flames. John was warm. Sherlock would very much like to keep him in bed just for the extra body heat, something John exuded on a higher than average level. "It's nice. Thank you." He smiled a bit and yawned, closing his eyes. The fire crackled at them, popping and prancing merrily on the walls.

A long silence stretched between the two men, and after several minutes, John did the only thing he could possibly have done. He lifted his arm, as he would have done with a date at the cinema, and he stretched it around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling the lanky body to his side, encouraging the soft head to rest on his shoulder. The flames were reflected, warm and orange on the sharp cheekbones, and as John drew him near, he turned his face to look at him fondly, a tiny smile playing in the corners of his mouth. "There, now," he murmured, his thumb brushing Sherlock's thin shoulder. "Are you warmer?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply, the slightest hint of an answering smile on his lips. "I don't want to go back to bed now. It's cold in my room." John's arm around his shoulders felt just right, the perfect amount of pressure and heat. Sherlock didn't want to lose it. Not at all.

John glanced around, his mouth twisting a little. "Well, then..." He arched his back, reaching for the afghan that lay on the far end of the sofa, just beyond his reach. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, and retrieved it for him without moving so much as a chest muscle, and John smirked, rolling his eyes and draping it across their backs. "Let's just... kip here a while. Together." He waited for his friend's inevitable disdain, but it never came. Sherlock only turned his face a little, curling closer and inhaling at the hollow of John's throat as they slouched against the couch, wrapped in warmth, friendship, camaraderie... and one another. John's free hand that was not grasping his friend came up to dig into dark, thick, silky curls, as it had done earlier that evening, and like earlier that evening, Sherlock's pretty lips parted a little, and he butted into the touch. John's eyes widened a little. How had he never known this about Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock liked his hair touched. The fingers massaged into his scalp as John grinned.

Sherlock practically moaned when John's fingers slid through his hair. He rolled his head a little, his eyelashes fluttering as he let out one tiny mewl of pleasure. Fuck, it felt good to have his hair played with. Sherlock nodded his head against the hand, rubbing up and curling even closer, his knees now resting on John's legs as he huddled up close to the short doctor. Maybe John wouldn't go into work today. Could they stay like this all morning? Sherlock would like that. Maybe they would move to the bed. Sherlock would like that even more. The fire spat and crackled peacefully, the flames twisting about, red and orange to behold. Sherlock couldn't think of a better memory. Not even his cases could compare to this sweet moment. One hand drifted up to John's chest, clutching at the shirt nonchalantly.

The hand in his hair stalled a moment, then resumed its petting. John stared into the fire, feeling the grip of spindly fingers in his checkered shirt, the weight of bony knees on top of his denim thigh, the huff of gusty breath on his neck. Sherlock was cudding with him, and this time, they were both awake. Well, that was better than before. Before, he'd practically humped John's leg in his sleep, and hell, any bloke would get a hard on from THAT. This, this was far more comfortable, and far less dangerous. This was just a simple pleasure, a comforting familiarity with one's best friend, and it wasn't as if John was going to get stiff from...

Oh. Oh, hell.

John shifted his seat just a little, his cheeks burning as he felt the evidence of his body's interest stirring in his groin, and he shook himself. This was Sherlock. This was not a romantic outing with his latest bird. This was his best mate, who was tired and cold. Like John. He coughed, tightening his grasp on the man's shoulder and purposefully continuing the stroking of that soft head. He was not going to allow his rebellious body to rule him. It would settle down. He just needed a wank, and he'd get it later.

Sherlock's lips ghosted over John's neck and he sighed happily. This was what he wanted. This and more. More and more and more and more and, Christ, he had an erection. Sherlock was desperately glad that his knees were bunched up together, otherwise his tight trousers would have made it very difficult for him to bluff off the swelling in his erogenous zone. Ignore it. Yes. It was what he did every other time. Ignore it and it would go away, of course. It always did. His hand fell from John's chest, resting on his crotch. Sherlock's eyes popped open. Oh. OH. OHHH.

John pulled back quite suddenly, coughing and stammering somewhat incoherently, with hands raised and a panicked look on his face. "Ahh. S..Sorry, not your fault. Um.. just... tired, and you know, ah, I should.. and I've loads of work today." He was making an attempt to stand, but his damned limbs weren't working properly, because first of all, unless he was very much mistaken, Sherlock Holmes had kissed his bloody neck, just bloody put his fucking pretty lips on his bloody neck, and then he'd touched his crotch, damn it! You didn't just... go about touching your friends' crotches, it just was not DONE. And he was bloody hard already! What the HELL must Sherlock think of him now? John's knees buckled underneath him again as he pressed his palm to the couch cushion, trying frantically to thrust himself up, so he could flee to his room as he continued to try and stutter out apologies.

Sherlock saw John's distress and backed off. He stood up and stared down at his friend quietly, watching the antics with an interested stare. He pulled John up by the hand and continued to look at him. John's legs were asleep, that much was obvious. He couldn't escape yet. Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips over John's, a barely there touch. "Thank you." He said softly, wishing very much that he still had his coat on as his erection had not diminished. Sherlock turned around and put his hands in his pockets, trudging back to his room. Perhaps this once he would succumb to the nature of his body, perhaps this once he would just try it. Maybe it would be worth it.

John watched him go, his stormy, troubled eyes round and bugging. He did not move until he heard Sherlock's door shut, and even then, for long minutes, he sat crouched on the floor, gaping. What the hell had just happened? The fire popped again, and the first light was peeking in around the curtains... and the world outside had changed. Everything was sharp. Everything was real. It was as if he'd been living in a fog, a never ending, rolling, thick fog that had clouded his mind, and had now suddenly, violently been swept away. From down the hall in Sherlock's room, John heard the faintest whisper of a low, guttural moan, and he was on his feet, striding quickly, his hands moving to grab at the coffee table before his mind could catch up with his body. His legs were strong and purposeful as he marched down the long hall and pushed open Sherlock's door without knocking. He knew what he would find. And suddenly... he knew he wanted it.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So, here we are at the end of our story! I will give you the warnings right now, because this is where it gets slashy, so if you're squeamish about that you should stop reading.

Warnings: Foul language, dirty talking, sex, lots of sex, um... all the sex.

* * *

Sherlock started when he heard his door practically bang open. He was, for the most part, undressed. His shirt hung open and his trousers were pushed down to his knees, his shorts had joined his trousers leaving the hard cock to jut proudly up in one slender, long fingered hand. He blinked up at John and cocked his head. "What do you want?" He asked in a flat, uninterested tone, while inside his mind was going crazy. Oh god, oh god, oh god. John was in his room. And he was looking at him. At Sherlock. Sherlock wanking. Fuck. Oh shit. Why was he here? Why? Wh... John had lubricant in his hand. Perhaps John was just being friendly and allowing him to use it. That, Sherlock concluded, was the stupidest scenario possible. Judging by the dilated pupils, shortness of breath, and the rather glorious tenting in his jeans, John Watson was not here with the intent of neighbourly kindness. Sherlock shifted a little, pulling his legs up, unable to stop the slight flush from growing on his cheeks. John was staring.

John's troubled eyes moved slowly, from Sherlock's face, down the lean, long, pale chest, to the hand wrapped around his dick, and back up to those silver eyes. Despite Sherlock's aggressive bravado, John could see the humiliation and fear in that haughty expression, and he stalked forward quickly, before he completely lost his nerve and retreated back upstairs to pull on his clothes and go to work and pretend none of this ever happened. It would be so easy; John could just force himself to forget the past twelve hours, and Sherlock could no doubt delete it from his hard drive, and everything would go back to normal. But John didn't want normal. Hell, John had NEVER wanted normal. He wanted adrenalin and danger and excitement... and Sherlock. And for the first time, that included wanting ALL of Sherlock.. his body as well as his mind. He watched closely as the detective shrank back with every deliberate step John took into the bedroom. "You forgot this," he whispered in the dim light seeping in through Sherlock's heavy drawn curtains. His hand held the bottle of lube out, the limb stretched between them, hovering dangerously close to Sherlock's stomach. The air was warmer there, as if heat radiated from the soft, flat belly and open thighs.

Colour rose to Sherlock's cheeks. "I didn't forget it. It wasn't mine." He said simply, covertly pulling the sheet over himself, his dick weeping quite a bit. Fascinating. So this was a very effective, if horribly mortifying way to rid oneself of these frustrating bodily functions. "Leave now."

John's knees were touching the bed now, and his chest rose and fell deeply, his eyes darting and lidded, not meeting Sherlock's intense gaze. He licked his lips, glancing down at the sheet that so indiscreetly covered Sherlock's naked cock. He'd seen Sherlock naked before; the man was not exactly a modest bloke. But he'd never seen him, never even imagined him, with an erection. Now that he had, John was hard pressed to think of anything else. The brief glimpse he'd gotten was... impressive. Rosy, tall, slender, noble. John wanted another look. He swallowed dryly, and bent, taking one of Sherlock's free hands, the one that was not currently under the sheets grasping the base of a very pretty cock, and he slid the bottle of lube into it. "Sherlock," he murmured, golden eyelashes catching the light and spilling it over pink cheeks, "do... you really want me to leave?"

Sherlock hesitated. Did he really want John to leave? Of course he did! He was Sherlock Holmes! He needed help from no one, he depended on no one, he... "not... if you don't want to." He muttered, pulling the sheet up even farther, staring down at his knees. Shit. Why was John still staring? Why was he even in here? He clutched the bottle, his knuckles were white he held it so tightly. "So just go now. You're satisfied, aren't you? Now you have enough ammunition to torment me for the rest of my life." He spat out bitterly, flipping over on his side, back facing John as he pulled his sheets over his head. "So go on."

John stared at his back for a moment, at the Sherlock-shaped mound beneath the sheets, and he sighed. "What the hell have I done to deserve this?" he muttered softly, loud enough for Sherlock to hear, soft enough to let the man know he wasn't angry. And he really didn't understand. As he sank to the bed, pulling his legs underneath him, John continued to speak quietly, his brow drawn. "I could understand if it was Mycroft, Sherlock, but it isn't, it's me. And it's not as if you were doing something wrong. And it's not as if you were doing something that every man ever born hasn't done. Fuck, I can't go more than a day or so without a toss, you know it's true. Why the bloody hell would I torment you for doing something I do on a daily basis? Why do you think I lock my door? Do you know how many times you've nearly walked in on me wanking?" The sheets rustled, but Sherlock did not reply. John rolled his eyes, and scooted closer. They sat in silence for a minute, and John looked down at his own trousers, at the bulge there. It might have to wait. Sherlock seemed... tense. He chewed on his lip a few moments, then made up his mind. Tan, calloused hands slid in the sheets to Sherlock's smooth back, and as John settled down further in the bed, he began to rub the muscles, gently, firmly. He could feel the coiled tension beneath the porcelain skin, so soft and supple to the touch, and with a gusty sigh, John leaned forward to whisper to him through the linens, "Sherlock... go ahead. I won't mind."

Sherlock shifted around under the sheets and grabbed John's hands, clutching them to his chest. After all, it was John's fault. He said it was okay. He said it was fine. It was all his fault. ALL his fault. He was always so damn accepting, and so... so John. Sherlock had never known someone quite like John before. "Because I was doing it thinking about you." The detective said quietly, curling up and resting his head on John's arms. "It's all your fault. I could resist every other time... it's not my fault. It's not mine. Don't blame me. So don't... don't go."

"I'm not blaming you, Sherlock." John drew him close, pulling him to his chest and inclining his head against the mass of dark, fragrant curls. Shit, but he smelled good. All the damned time. No man had a right to smell this good. "I know you were thinking of me. That's why I'm here. There's no blame to be had, Sherlock, none at all." He kissed the top of his head, exhaling gently, feeling the tickle of the rustling hair against his nose. John's fingers traced the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his lips, and with a resigned grunt, he let himself fully recline on the bed, turning to nudge the full length of his body against Sherlock's. For a long, quiet moment, he waited, his fingerpads resting on the pulse point of Sherlock's neck, waiting... waiting.. waiting for his best friend to notice the insistent hardness that twitched, flush against his lower back. John's face was scarlet, and burning, but he did not move. This... was new, yes. But there was no shame to be had here, despite what poor Sherlock's fucked up little psyche told him. Sherlock had every fucking right to have a healthy sexual appetite, and... and if he was hungry for John Watson, then by the fires of hell, John was going to give him what he needed.

Sherlock felt something nudge him in the back and it took him a few moments to realise what it was. He moaned quietly, arching his back into the erection before he realised what HE was doing. Slowly, very slowly, a hand reached back behind him, searching for the source of his shock and, strangely enough, pleasure. His hands lit on it and he almost took his hand away. Almost. That was before he felt John shudder and gasp. The detective turned around, gaping up at him in surprise. "Me?" It was almost a squeak, something Sherlock would chastise himself for months after this encounter. His hand got bolder, flattening his palm against the straining in John's trousers.

John could not answer. He was every bit as floored, every bit as fascinated as he gazed down at the lily white hand cupping and palming the tenting in his jeans. He dragged his eyes back up to Sherlock, mouth opening and closing, and at last he let out a guttural groan, rocking just once into that strong hand. Oooh, shit! His head fell back a little, and he whimpered, shivering all over. John's hands fell to the detective's stomach, and he gripped it, pulling him back harder, his mouth finding its way to the nape of that long, slender neck. John pressed his lips there, his tongue flicking out very tentatively and tasting the salt of his skin, and the moment he did, Sherlock's scent assaulted his taste buds, and his cock jumped in his friend's hand. "Hah.." John cried out very softly against his neck, his eyes squeezing shut. His right hand inched lower, tracing the lines of his abdomen, down, down, down.

Sherlock's mouth opened wide, moaning loudly as John's hand touched his bare prick. He immediately sealed his lips, his cheeks heating up. Bowing his shoulders, he curled over, eyelashes fluttering. "Johnnn..." The sleuth moaned, his own hand tightening over John's cock, squeezing it lightly as the doctor's hand closed around his. Shit. This felt too good. Too damn good. Sherlock had never felt anything this gratifying in his entire life. He shuddered, rocking his hips slightly into the callused hand. "Goddd."

John's mouth had taken on a life of its own. It moved up and down the white neck, finding a spot below a curved ear and sucking there as his hand brushed up and down Sherlock's long cock. His knuckled grazed the shaft, his fingertips danced around the head, and it occurred to John as his friend moaned and rocked against him that no one had ever touched Sherlock like this before. Not once, in his entire brilliant life. Better make it good. With a comforting nip at his shoulder, John reached for the lubricant, still grasped tightly in Sherlock's hand. He worked it out of the iron grip with some effort. Sherlock seemed dazed, lost between rolling his hips back into John's aching groin, and grinding up, looking for the contact he'd lost. "Shh.. it's okay, I'm not going anywhere," he whispered into the crest of his spine, his eyelashes fluttering against the milky skin, and he squeezed him once as he uncapped the bottle, and upended it on the pretty cock. John's eyes glittered as he watched it spill out, dribbling down the heated flesh, shining like liquid diamonds and making Sherlock hiss. It was cold. He capped the bottle again, and his breath was coming so fast, so shallow. "Sherlock..." his voice ghosted across the shell of his ear. "Have... you ever touched yourself before?" John's fist closed once more around the wet base.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared at the opposite wall, silent for a few seconds. "Wha..? What a stupid question! I have no reason to answer that! What business is it of yours whether or not I've... hoofuuuckkk!" He whined, rocking up into the grip, his toes curling. John's tongue flicked out, tasting the back of Sherlock's ear and making him mewl. Like hell he was going to answer that question. Touched himself indeed. It was a stupid way to phrase a base question. Everyone TOUCHED themselves, whether they touched their genitals was a different question!

"Answer me.." John squeezed it once, good and hard, before letting go and taking Sherlock by the wrist. He removed the hand from his crotch, nearly moaning at the loss of heat between his legs, but that was easily rectified. John reached round to grab his cock once more, and with a sharp, jerking motion, he snapped his hips up, digging his erection into the tight, round globes of Sherlock's arse. "Tell me, Sherlock..." he breathed again, his voice growing husky and hoarse. "Do you touch yourself, late at night, when I've gone to bed? When you've tired of the violin, and you're bored with telly? Do you lie in this bed and think of me and touch yourself... here?" One pump. That was all... one firm, slick, glorious pump. John grinned like a madman as Sherlock keened loudly.

This was too much for the poor detective. John was completely taking over every last inch of him, defeating all his defences. John was touching him in places NO one had ever touched before. "I don't... no... it's a pointless activity when I have so many other, better things to do." John's cock came in contact with his arse again, the hand squeezing slightly. "FUCK! Fine," he whimpered, letting his head fall back. "Fine. Once... once I stroked it... just a touch, with a finger. Still had my trousers on. Once. When you first came out of the shower wearing only that damn robe." Sherlock's cheeks burned with shame, but he couldn't help it. John's hand was... talented to say the least. And Sherlock never wanted him to stop. Never ever. "This is the first time I've..." He trailed off, biting his lip and stopping himself from whimpering. Damn it. Probably fucking moronic that he hadn't masturbated before. John was going to tease him, going to laugh right in his ear. Everyone did it. But Sherlock didn't DO what everyone else did. He wasn't LIKE everyone else. He didn't NEED to be sexually gratified. He was Sherlock fucking Holmes!

A heavy tremor passed through John's frame. "Sherlooock," he moaned in his ear, and with quick tugs of the wrist, John began to stroke him, each long drag accompanied by a gentle rock of his cock into that tight arse. Fuck! Fuck, this was... fucking wonderful. Sherlock was the most beautiful, most innocent, most virginal person John had ever met in his entire life, and the moment was improbable but perfect. His free hand tangled in the dark curls, pulling his head back to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and John held him steady there, quickly sliding Sherlock's prick in and out of the slick tunnel of his fist. He'd never gotten another bloke off before... never even thought about it. Even in the army, when more than one of his mates were shagging for stress relief, John remained stalwartly straight. But.. Sherlock Holmes was a special case. One that John was simply DYING to crack. Gooseflesh ran up and down his thighs as he canted up into the muscular buttocks, trying desperately not to think of what lay between them, and he concentrated on coaxing as much pleasure from this first wank as possible. If he was to be a part of this... he wanted Sherlock to remember it, for the rest of his days. The detective's lips were pressed together, and John pulled his head back far enough to dance his mouth lightly over Sherlock's. "Make some noise," he whispered hotly. "It will help."

"How?" Sherlock asked curiously, jolting into John's grasp. "Is there any scientific study to back up that claim?" He hissed out as John's finger traced around the head of his already leaking cock. Oh, oh, OH that felt good. Why hadn't he tried this before? The thought was now completely ludicrous now that he had time to ponder the subject. This seemed like a perfect way to relieve stress and boredom. Why on earth had he never bothered even once before? "Why?"

In answer, John ground up particularly hard, letting his body have just a tiny taste of the welcoming firmness of that lithe body, and he cried out to the walls and to Sherlock, his ache and hunger plain in the shout. And it felt GOOD. It felt fucking wonderful, to have his hands on him, to kiss his cherubic mouth, to make noise. His hand quickened, and he began to thrust up, unable to help himself now, jerking Sherlock's prick as he allowed his own to slam into the back of his friend. A spike of white hot excitement shot through the little doctor, and he tried very hard to ignore the fact that he was now humping his best friend on the bed in the early morning, and he had no intention of stopping until they were both good and sticky and sated.

Sherlock couldn't hold back his voice then, not after John had shouted in his ear, not after he'd began slamming up into him, the hard cock ramming up into Sherlock's bare arse with a passion. Not when John's hand was so well employed, jerking up and down with the ease of a well-practised soul. "Hnnnnn... aahh!" He practically sobbed as the force of his hunger, his need hit him like a tidal wave. Soon he was meeting John's thrusts with backwards ones of his own, rocking into the warm hand and back into the firm cock. But it wasn't enough. It would NEVER be enough. Sherlock understood that the moment John first touched his prick. He would never be able to get enough of John H Watson, and he never wanted to. "More." It was a rather pathetic request spoken in a voice so small that even Sherlock himself had a hard time hearing it, but it was there none the less. He wanted MORE.

John hesitated, his thrusts stalling as his throat went completely dry. Beneath the denim, his cock ached and throbbed, engorged and begging to be set free. John's right hand left Sherlock's shaft, and he ignored the whimper of loss, lifting the wet hand to grasp at his chin. He turned the beautiful face to look into his eyes, intense and piercing. "Do you trust me, Sherlock?" John asked lowly. He would not inflict anything, any touch, any action, upon Sherlock that his friend did not want.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhat dry as he gave John The Look. "I thought I explained it to you before, or have you forgotten again? I trust you. More than anyone, anything in the world. You are more reliable and useful to me than my mobile." He pulled out of John's grasp and sat up, his back to the man. "If you don't want to, fine. Leave me to get the business taken care of on my own. I will understand, as strange as that might seem. I've been reliably informed that I am not completely heartless." He smiled a little, folding his legs under him. Of course he trusted John.

It took only a second after Sherlock's back was turned for John to register the fact that his defences were down. This should not have mattered as much as it did, but to a military man like John Watson, when one bloke was about to pin another, with the very likely purpose of penetrating and fucking him into the mattress, and when the bloke in question was as strong and able as Sherlock Holmes, it seemed only sensible to take the advantages one was given. He pressed swiftly and suddenly to his friend's back, planting one tanned hand on the back of his head and pushing him down, his heart quickening in his chest. "Elbows and knees, Sherlock," he murmured, his entire body pounding with possibility. How would it feel? Would it be as good, as sweet as sinking into the heat of a woman's soft body? Would it be tighter? Would it hurt too much? Did any of that matter? Right now, hell, no. John's hands urged him down, his eyes braving the gorgeous expanse of Sherlock's body to seek out the virginal pucker between his cheeks. One thumb grazed it, as curious and frightened as Sherlock himself.

Sherlock shuddered as the digit, from the girth, angle, and size of it he deduced it was the thumb. The detective tucked his knees under him a little, propping himself up. Sherlock's heart rate increased, his blood beginning to pump and converge in one central location; namely at the tip of his dick. A new sensation in Sherlock's book. _Sex._ What a strange word with so many different meanings, some Sherlock understood perfectly, others he had next to no practical awareness of. Logically he knew what happened now, but how it was going to be able to happen the sleuth had no clue. All he knew was somehow John was going to, for lack of a better term, be inside Sherlock. That both terrified and excited the poor man, causing his whole body to tremble with anticipation. He reached a hand behind him and brushed a few long fingers over John's knee. "Aren't you going to get undressed? If I am not very much mistaken it is rather impossible to complete this... transaction without being at least mostly naked." He shifted about, burying his face in the pillow, his shirt falling down over the top of his back.

Transaction... John would have laughed out loud if he didn't think it would make the skittish creature below him bolt for the door. And if there was one thing he did not want right now, it was a frightened detective making a run for it. Instead, he forced his breathing to calm, and he continued to dance his thumb over the elastic muscle, eyes widening as it twitched in response. With his left hand, John flicked the snap of his blue jeans open, shushing his friend when Sherlock stiffened automatically. "Shh, Sherlock, it's all right. I'm not doing anything, I'm just... letting it breathe, okay? It hurts." And it did. The moment he unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock free, John moaned aloud at the sight of it. His dick was enflamed, nearly purple with the blood rushing to its head, and it throbbed in his hand, harder than it had been in fucking years. He petted it lightly, violent shudders wracking him from the attention, and involuntarily, his thumb pressed against the flexing hole. Shit. John jerked his hand away as Sherlock convulsed, and he whispered an apology, staring down at the tight pucker, and his own thick cock. This... was a very, very bad idea. His eyes darted about the bed for the bottle of lubricant, and he snatched it up, his chest heaving.

Sherlock shook his head, his face still buried in the fabric of the pillow. He needed John to hurry up before he lost his nerve and yelled at John to get the hell out of his room. He needed John to be inside him. He needed John. Needed him desperately. The sleuth mewled a little as John's finger returned to the tight hole. "It doesn't hurt," he said quietly, "just feels... odd." He flushed, shaking his head again. "Not like that... it feels, different. Better than expected." He rocked his hips back a little, trying to get more friction, eager to see if the rest of this whole encounter felt half as interesting. "Push it in."

The doctor wet his lips again, nervous and far, far too excited. The air dragged in and out of his nostrils, quick and heavy as John uncapped the lube once more, blinking rapidly to stave off the slight dizziness of the moment, and he let the liquid slide down his fingers, glittering in the dull morning light. One hand gripped Sherlock's bony hip with force, pulling him backwards just a little, until his thighs met with John's, and the smaller man stared down at him, so open... so willing. "Just one finger now," he whispered, more to himself than to Sherlock. He was having a hell of a difficult time convincing himself that he should not slick his cock and shove it in. That... sounded lovely. Fucking wonderful. Instead, his smallest finger rubbed insistently in between his buttocks, finding the hot, twitching pucker, and twisting about, working its way inside. John's mouth parted, sucking in a sharp breath. It was so SOFT.

Sherlock's breath came out in one, big gasp. "Oh!" He started, his hips involuntarily shifting back into the finger that was wiggling its way inside him. Sherlock had never had anything like this happen before. He'd never so much as had a prostate exam before! It was a strange, rather wonderful feeling. The finger twisted around in him, crooking about quite suddenly. "Deeper." He commanded, grabbing his own prick, his fist tightening over the organ as he let out a tiny moan in the back of his throat. The detective was terrified, completely and utterly terrified, and he wanted MORE. More and more and MORE, and then some more again. "Hurry up."

The little finger left, replaced by John's forefinger, and he thrust it in quickly this time, beginning to pant at Sherlock's enthusiastic reaction. It had not been at all what John was expecting, and it made the jutting problem between his legs far, far worse. He was grinding it into the back of Sherlock's thigh before he could control himself, and the instantaneous relief and white hot lust that resulted tore a growl from his throat. Sherlock's arse was eating up his finger hungrily as he dug it in, pulled it out, dig it in deeper, and the detective was stroking himself in time, moaning and rutting his face into the pillows below. "Bloody hell, that's hot," John muttered, his hips grinding up into the lean thigh. "Sherlock.. do you think you can take two?" His cock was a hell of lot larger than two fingers.

Sherlock bit his lip, nodding furiously. "...I think I can take more." He muttered, icy eyes rolling to the back of his head in anticipation of the larger intrusion. "Just put them in. Put them in." Sherlock whimpered, rocking his hips into the thick finger. It felt so fucking good inside him, twisting around and stretching him. There was a slight burning sensation, but then again there was only one digit, even if it was mostly buried in him. In him... Shit, John's finger was inside him and there was going to be more. Sherlock's insides burned with sudden desire. Ohhh, he wanted to feel that cock before it was balls deep in his arse. The detective pulled away from him, his eyelids fluttering, his body protesting severely at the loss of John's finger. He flipped around and stared at John, licking his lips. "Can I... can I touch?" He asked quietly, his eyes dragging down to the erect, red cock in front of him.

John's grey eyes rounded, growing huge and wondering as his friend knelt before him, his best friend, his dear companion, his precious Sherlock. The detective blinked up at him, needing assurance, permission, and slowly, John nodded, his heart hammering. The man was so unsure, which was such a vast difference from the normally arrogant, proud bloke John knew and admired. This Sherlock was hesitant, tentative, and utterly charming as he bit his pretty lip, eyes darting from John's awed face to the aching flesh between his thighs. John leaned back a little, lifting his hips and pushing at his jeans, sliding them down muscular, slender legs and kicking them off. He knelt there on the bed, facing his flat mate and now-lover, his chest quivering. Sherlock did not move. John's hands shook as he dropped them to Sherlock's body, grazing down his torso, and he wrapped both palms around the long, white cock. "Like this," he whispered, and began to stroke his friend once more, slowly, sweetly, never leaving those mercurial eyes.

Sherlock let out a tiny little mewl as John's hands closed around his prick. Without hesitation the detective reached out and grabbed John's prick, his eyes widening as his hands came in contact with the overly warm skin. He stared up at John, his mouth open slightly as he met John's gaze. It was warm and firm and felt surprisingly nice in his hands. "John..." The detective licked his lips nervously. Oh god. Sherlock wasn't completely inept when it came to sex, well, he did know a few things. And he wanted to try. Oh, but he wanted to try. "Can... can I?" He licked his lips again, his eyes flickering down to John's cock. John's cock that he was finally touching. Sherlock gently stroked up, experimentally rubbing his thumb around the slit, staring up at John's expression to make sure he was doing it right.

Again the nod, but this time, it was accompanied by a throaty, strained groan that shook John to the core and came bubbling up from his lungs. He canted his hips up into the soft, smooth tunnel of Sherlock's hand, and his ears flushed red as a jolt of pleasure seared him, like lightning strikes throughout his limbs. John's mouth gaped, and he quickened his pace, inching closer to the tall man.

One hand left Sherlock's cock to card through his hair, and John dragged him down, pausing as their noses brushed, just to gaze at him, to look at his sweet face. Already, Sherlock looked completely and thoroughly debauched. His eyes were lidded and lusty, his full lips parted and panting. His hair was mussed, his cheekbones scarlet, his expression dreamlike... and John wanted him. He stretched up to pluck at his mouth with thin, dry lips, their breath mingling as he whispered to him. "Keep touching me like that, Sherlock... you can do anything you like."

"Ohhh good." Sherlock sighed in relief, ducking his head down and tentatively flicking his tongue over the head of John's cock, his eyes closing for a half a second as he tasted the precum. A low, guttural moan left his lips and he sucked in the head, suddenly eager for more. For everything. Sherlock wanted everything John had to offer, he wanted to own this man heart and soul. He wanted his life and his love. "John... the chemicals in our body seem to react well together. Did you know that when two people are attracted they both think the other's smell and taste and touch is supreme?" He chuckled at John's incredulous expression. "I never believed it before now. Or at least... I wasn't quite sure I believed it until now." He grabbed John's hand and bit down on one finger. "I want you."

Later. There would be time later to teach Sherlock that one did not spout factoids and scientific research in the middle of a blowjob, particularly when one's partner was as close to exploding as John was. He felt the sharp teeth sink into his finger, and his cock jumped at the pain that shot up his arm, and John grinned ferally, showing two rows of white, pearly teeth to his friend. "Then get back on your elbows, baby," he commanded softly, pulling him off of his cock by his hair and twisting his fingers, just a little. Hell, he couldn't help it! Sherlock looked so damned fine and naughty bent over between his legs, that wicked red tongue flattening against the head of his cock! A powerful part of him was considering just allowing him to finish the blow, to hold that head down and make Sherlock eat his cock, make him suck and lick it until he ejaculated all over that haughty face... but John could feel the throb of blood inside the detective's stiff prick, could feel it pulsing and rushing and engorging the head, and he wanted desperately to know what it would feel like to shove inside that nubile body, if it would be good for Sherlock... if John could make him cum. He kissed his mouth again, and wedged a shoulder against him, urging him down.

Sherlock obeyed in an instant, his breath coming in short gasps once more. This was it. This was real now. He buried his face into the pillows once more, thankful of the shield, for his cheeks were a rather gorgeous shade of magenta. Slowing his breathing down, the detective tucked his legs under him once more, lifting his arse up into the air, opening himself for John. It was a terrifying, shocking sensation. One that Sherlock wasn't sure he could ever get used to, even if they did this again. Did it again... Sherlock wasn't even sure how it would feel, and already he was wanting to undergo this strange transformation another time. But how could he not? How could he not want to hear John's panting behind his back? Feel the warmth radiating from the doctor's body, the heat pulsating into his skin from John's burning hot hand on his back... Sherlock gurgled a little and spread his legs wider, remembering how good just one finger had felt.

"Shit." Strange, how John's extensive vocabulary seemed to have been reduced to grunts and curses. He knelt behind his best mate, staring down at him, unable to tear his eyes away though a powerful sense of British propriety told him he should. This... this view was too raw, too vulnerable for John to gaze at with hungry, devouring eyes, and yet, he was utterly powerless to stop. His hands moved up and down the supple flesh, feeling the silken curves of Sherlock's hips, the velvety globes of his arse, and he rubbed both thumbs over his entrance firmly, his breath coming fast and heavy. "Damn," he muttered, and wondered where his silver tongue had gone. John had always fancied himself a bit of a smooth talker in bed. Not tonight. Tonight, he was stripped of reason and reality, and was laid bare. He was nothing, nothing but a man in need, and he needed Sherlock. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, digging the tips of his thumbs inside as he rubbed his aching cock against Sherlock's white, lean thigh. "Tell me, Sherlock Holmes, and do be as detailed as possible."

Sherlock groaned loudly as he felt the wet head of John's cock rubbing against his leg, as he felt the barely there intrusion of John's finger tips. "I... want..." he gasped out finally, managing to get his voice under control. Never in all his years would he have expected himself to lose his vocabulary. "To feel you. Your... penis..." He licked his lips and propped his head up a bit, all the better to speak. He thought about it for a few moments, wondering just how "detailed" John wanted it to be. After all, Sherlock could greatly expound on the scientific process of the sexual practises between two men. He'd looked it up enough the past few weeks. "I want you to fuck me, John. I want to feel your damn penis inside me, I want to feel you ejaculating. I want to feel your sperm. I... I want to feel." Sherlock choked a bit and hid his face once more. "I want to feel you."

John let out a strangled noise, his heart breaking as the halting, clipped words fell from those gorgeous, angelic lips. Fuck! In his entire life, no woman had ever been so bloody honest, so innocent and naked in her desires, as Sherlock had just been with him. No one had ever said such simple, beautiful words to him before. He swooped down, grabbing a hand full of Sherlock's hair, and he yanked him up just long enough to kiss him soundly on the mouth, pouring every centimetre of passion and adoration into that one ripping kiss. John released him suddenly, and grasped the slender hips. He lined himself up, panting and looking down at himself in wonder, and with a whimper of disbelief, he nudged forward, just a little, teasing the pucker bit by bit until it gently gave way, and the head of his cock slipped inside. John halted there, his eyes rolling back. Sherlock was clutching his pillow silently, every muscle tense, and John took a moment to pet his back, the desire to shove in and just have his way overwhelming. "Shh.." John hissed, barely able to catch his breath. Shit, he was tight. "Sherlock.. hahhh.. j..just relax, love. Focus on your body. Make it relax." He reached between Sherlock's legs, and slipped his fingers up and down the weeping shaft.

Hot, desperate tears filled Sherlock's eyes as the immeasurable pain filled him. It wasn't wholly unbearable, though, he thought to himself as John's hand began to work the length of his prick. In fact... the more he got used to it the better it felt. It still hurt, but John wasn't moving, and that was good. Very good. Very nice. Very... "I AM relaxed!" He shouted out, almost petulantly. "So MOVE. GOD!" Sherlock couldn't help it. It was the only way he could fully voice just how much he wanted it. Even if... hell, John didn't even have any lubricant on his cock. But Sherlock didn't care. He didn't mind if it hurt. Not when it came to John. Nothing was ever "normal" with John. And perhaps that was why Sherlock adored him so. For being such an ordinary bloke, John was the most interesting person alive. Sherlock felt the head of John's cock rotate around a little, and he let out a tiny whimper. He knew this was the smallest part, too... it could only get thicker from here on. How would it feel? Would it be good? Would the pain persist and become unbearable? John's hand tightened around his cock, making Sherlock's body jump forward. Oh, he wanted more of the prick inside him. Badly.

The doctor laughed a little, desperately, shakily, and he complied without a word, sliding in Sherlock's body a little further. Jolts of electric pleasure shot through him, and he groaned aloud, the grip on his hips tightening to a bruising grasp. Sherlock's body resisted. The man was hunched over on his elbows and knees, shaking all over, impatient and terrified, and... John pulled out suddenly, scrambling for the bottle of lube and slicking three fingers again. Sherlock nearly shouted at him in protest, his throaty, rumbling voice crying out unintelligibly, but John ignored him, and pushed the three fingers in with haste. Sherlock gasped and buried his face in his pillow, still red and muttering angrily, but his hips rotated back against the intrusion. John grinned. He began to twist the three fingers about, and with his free hand, he poured more of the clear liquid between his arse cheeks, letting it slick between his fingers, pushing it inside, liberal, shining, disgustingly debaucherous. John pulled the fingers out as fast as he could without searing his conscience, and he repositioned, pushing in all the way this time. Hell. Hellll, that was better. The passage was slippery and soft, and the muscle contracted and expanded around his cock as if they were made to fit together. Like puzzle pieces. "Oooh, FUUUCK." John moaned, pulling out a little and sliding back in again, his body jolting. "Sherlock.. Sherlock..Sh.." He lost his voice, and pumped him again. And again. And again.

Sherlock's mouth gaped open as he felt the fullness of John's cock enter him. Without wasting any time, his arms shot up underneath the pillow, bringing it up so that it entirely hid his face, and then he screamed. It felt good. So damn GOOD. Better than anything Sherlock could have ever imagined. And soon he was sobbing quietly and rolling his hips back as John's prick began to thrust in and out and in, each time with more force. Obtaining both accuracy and precision as the head of his prick began to strike against Sherlock's prostate, sending the man into a wild state of desperate arousal. "JOHHHHNN!" He shrieked out, thankful of the pillow's muffling properties. It was too much. The doctor was far thicker than Sherlock would have thought. The bulging veins scraped against his insides, causing him to shudder and whine with each thrust. John's hands were on his hips, a bruising force, the only thing keeping Sherlock from arching up completely into the air. The only thing that kept him grounded. "Johnnnnnnnn!"

"Yeah, Sherlock, take my cock..." Oh shit, John was lost. It had been far too long since his last shag, and now that this door was open... hell, blown apart... he was completely gone, surrendered, and having a hell of a time. Sherlock's body was tight and wet and so, so fucking hot. Driving into that snug heat was like coming home, to a home he'd never known, but always knew was out there, somewhere, waiting for him. Fuck, he'd just never ever thought it would be HERE. With this person. Another slamming drive, and John's nerves began to sing, the blood rushing in his ears as he barked out a laugh, staring down at his own thick, forceful cock invading Sherlock's sweet arse. "You fucking love it," he muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock replied with a sob, and John groaned, his thrusts quickening, growing deeper as he became bold. "You fucking love it, look at you, Sherlock. Not a fucking virgin anymore, are you, baby? Look at you, spreading your legs and eating my cock. Oh, hell, you're going to regret this night, Sherlock, when I'm crawling in your bed every night at all hours, riding your arse, shoving my dick into you, fucking you all night..." John's hands had released his hips, and they began to wander the creamy flesh of Sherlock's bucking, virginal body. They memorized every place that John had always wanted to touch, claiming him, making it known that this body was John's now, and the doctor intended to keep it. He rode him hard, their flesh slapping loudly in the dark.

Sherlock was silent for long moments, listening to John's growls, to the sounds of his cock slamming in and out, to the way their skin met in a delicious frenzy of need and arousal. It all felt so perfect. So wonderful. And then Sherlock decided to address the comments. He turned his head around, marshalling all his faculties into a row so that he could maintain enough brain cells to speak. The rest being concentrated on the pleasure that was coming to a peak at the pit of his stomach. An odd sensation. Sherlock opened his mouth, his voice tremulous and whispery as he stared into John's eyes. "Why?" He asked softly, bucking as John's prick hit his prostate once more with bruising force. "Why would I ever regret this night when all I want is you to be in my bed every night?" He reached a hand behind him, his fingers brushing over John's skin. "When I simply want to worship this body every night?" Sherlock pulled his hand away and once more hid his face in the pillow, waiting John's reply, if one was forthcoming. After all, John seemed to be in as dire straits as he was. Sherlock let out a groan. He knew what was coming.

John's thrusts slowed gradually, and came at last to a stop. His hands stalled on Sherlock's chest, and for a few tense moments, they stayed there, John buried deep inside Sherlock's body, the detective face down in the pillows. At last, John slipped out once more, letting out an audible whimper of agony as he did. His hands plucked at the narrow waist. "Turn over please," he said very softly.

Sherlock protested violently at the loss of John's prick. He thrust backwards, ignoring the request, until it became evident that John would not continue without Sherlock complying. The detective flipped over and stared down at his painfully hard cock. He'd asked a stupid question, then. Oh, he saw it now. John's words hadn't been actual questions. They'd been... sex talk. And stupidly Sherlock had let his lack of knowledge get in the way. "Can we just continue?" He demanded somewhat insolently, feeling horribly open. If John didn't slide back in him in two seconds, the detective was going to grab him by the hair and throw the short doctor from his room. "Just expunge the question from your memory. It was stupid. I get it now. Hurry up and fuck me!" His lower lip protruded and he ground his arse down against the sheets to emphasize his need. "It hurts." Sherlock reached a slender hand down to his prick and rubbed it, moaning a little. He was so close... so very close.

John shook his head, smiling gently and lifting the thin legs to his shoulders. He nestled between them, closing his eyes as he slid his cock back into the welcoming decadence of Sherlock's silken tunnel, and he gasped, letting his head fall back. He stayed there a moment, ignoring Sherlock's wriggling impatience, and when he opened his eyes again, they were burning and full of emotion. He bent until he was eye level with the detective, and John kissed his lips deeply, slipping his tongue into the open, panting mouth. "Sherlock," John breathed, thrusting shallowly into the wonderful heat. He shuddered, a wave of unbelievable delight exploding in his bones. "I just... wanted to see your face... our first time." John laughed hoarsely as his orgasm came approaching swiftly, and he wrapped one rough and around Sherlock's stiff cock, and began to stroke, quickly, his thrusts picking up speed again. Shit shit shit SHIT he felt GOOD. "I.. fuck... want... every night, yes, yes, yes," John babbled, his head falling back as he began to spasm and convulse in pure, carnal pleasure.

The impossible had been obtained, it seemed. Sherlock Holmes was struck dumb. He opened his mouth to reply, to say something, but nothing came out. Not a single sound. He had absolutely no words that could sum up the intense feelings. He felt John convulsing inside him, and he could not express himself vocally. All he could do was curl his fingers around the sheets and cum. Violently bucking down on John, tightening around the prick, his mouth opening and closing, silver eyes wide. Oh, it was delightful. It was perfection. John's prick was quickening its pace, pumping him full of the white, sticky liquid. All the while, Sherlock was riding the waves, trying desperately to stay grounded on the bed as his own seed splattered across his stomach, a few strands landing on his cheek and chin. He sobbed and grabbed onto John's hands, clinging to them tightly, staring into the deepest pair of grey eyes he'd ever had the pleasure of encountering.

Their eyes met as they came together, and John's heart was suddenly racing, and it had nothing to do with his orgasm. Oh, the climax was massive, and the best of his life... it lasted, pulsing over and over into the body below, violent and dizzying, but... it was not the mind blowing ejaculation that had John's heart pumping.

It was those eyes.

Sherlock's titanium eyes gazed into his as John felt the warm splatter of cum erupt between them, as Sherlock experienced his first orgasm, gazing deeply into John's eyes and holding them. They came together, holding onto one another, panting and experiencing the other's climax as deeply and fully as their own, and when it was over, the gaze still held. They hovered together on the bed, mouths open, eyes round, bodies slick with sweat and semen, until at last, John leaned down very, very slowly, and brushed his dry lips over Sherlock's. "All right?" he murmured softly.

Sherlock nodded, still silent for a few moments as he gathered his faculties together in a neat row. "Yes," he finally said, blinking rapidly. "Yes." The detective's fingers loosened around John's and he allowed his body to relax on the bed. "Quite all right. Thank... you..." with a tiny moan, Sherlock pushed up and deepened the previous kiss, unwilling to let the moment pass. "You meant it, correct?" He asked softly, leaning on his hands. "What you said about... about being with me? Because I won't let you go, John. Not now." Sherlock swallowed hard and looked bravely in John's eyes, his jaw set. There was a rather high percentage that John would reject him even now.

"Idiot." John crawled to straddle him, wrapping both strong, sturdy arms around Sherlock's neck and bringing their lips together again, and again, and again, until he was pushing him down and snogging him, their tongues sliding together, guttural moans and wordless whispers escaping their throats as they rolled on the bed. John lay on his back, his friend... his lover... atop him, devouring his mouth with fervour, and as he lay in Sherlock's bed, naked, sated, and accepting the kisses hungrily, John felt a sense of wonder and excitement build in him. His adrenalin was pumping. Once more, for the thousandth time since meeting this man, he had no idea what tomorrow would bring. And that was the way John liked it. One thing was for damned sure... he wasn't sleeping upstairs anymore. He arched up, hooking his leg around Sherlock's waist, and he opened his mouth wider, moaning his name. Nothing in the world had ever sounded more natural.

Sherlock smiled into the kiss and grabbed hold of John's wrists, bringing them high over his head as he deepened the kiss, returning John's moan with one of his own. John was his. No one else's. Just his. And Sherlock knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would no longer be cold in bed. He had John. The detective growled a little and curled up possessively around John's body. "Mine."

"Mine," John repeated quietly, firmly, and ground his soft cock up into Sherlock's. He did not resist the grip on his wrists, but relished it, and found he rather like it. Damn. Damn. He'd just fucked Sherlock Holmes. His chest puffed out proudly, and his chin jutted. If he'd had a mirror, John would have seen a foolishly smug grin on his handsome face. "Mine." He looked up into the aquiline, smooth face, and his breath caught. How long had he been in love with Sherlock and not known it? "Mine," he growled deeply.


End file.
